


1939: "Corner Boys"

by reserve, robokittens



Series: Two Boys At Play [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Baby BDSM, Forced Orgasm, He's Actually 20, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Playing Doctor, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sometimes I Think You Like Getting Punched, Teen Sadist Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 01:40:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2754872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reserve/pseuds/reserve, https://archiveofourown.org/users/robokittens/pseuds/robokittens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You oughta be a detective, Brian.” Bucky laughs a little too loudly, meeting Steve's gaze. “‘Cause you’re dead on. Rogers <em>is</em> sticking it to one of my sisters. Hell, I'd wager he’s sticking it to <em>all of ‘em.</em>”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1939: "Corner Boys"

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in the same universe as [Playtime](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2640776).

They're all standing in front of Mr. Carlyle's corner store, snapping gum and sucking down smoke after smoke like the bad element. They've got something to say about every girl that passes until she's close enough to hear, then it's all tipped hats and sweet grins. The whole show puts Steve in a foul mood.  

Bucky catches his eye from his place in the center of the gang, and smiles crookedly when a particularly hot little number goes by. "Looks like Rita Hayworth," he mouths.

Steve rolls his eyes. All Bucky's friends do is flap their gums.

Predictably, Steve's off to the side of their cronies, guys they've known since grammar school. He's seen all these fellas get their knuckles rapped by a nun or two; doesn't mean he's gotta like them. When they're not going on about girls, they’re going on about the War. The War, that’s all anyone is talking about these days and it makes jealousy coil in Steve’s chest like a snake ready to strike. All of these dummies will get to serve their country but not him, no siree, not sickly Steve Rogers with his bad lungs and flat feet.

 _Fuck it_ , he thinks, just on the edge of miserably, and pushes away from the shop wall to get closer to the group.  

 Brian Blake, from down their block, says something raucous; Steve only catches the tail end of it but he laughs along with the rest of them, makes a hearty noise of agreement.

 "Ya think, Rogers?"

 He catches an elbow to the side, and winces a little but doesn't actually let it move him. It's Albie Duncan, whom Steve privately always thought was a little dim to hang out with Bucky, but he's sure there's some charm there.

 "Didn't know that's how you liked 'em," Albie continues. "She’s ok, I guess, if you like those arty types, all snooty an’ high falootin. Not for me though. I got a gal —"

There's a general tumult of shouted insults that lead Steve to believe that Albie's sweetheart has come under fire before. Their raised voices draw the attention of the girl across the street, the one they’d just been analyzing, and she glances over with a supremely unimpressed look.  Not a single one of these guys will be taking her out, Steve’s sure of that.

"You got a girl?” he says to Albie, encouraging, distracting. He can see Bucky scowl at him out the corner of his eye, but he's not sure if it's because he's tired of the topic or because…because whyever it is Bucky that scowls at him these days.

Albie preens a little, gratified by the attention, even from Steve. "She's training to be an army nurse," he goes on boastfully. "I figure maybe I can talk her into playing doctor."

"Sure," Steve says, "it'd be good for her to get some practice." He grins, and it’s almost a leer. It’s that grin that shows up whenever he tries to fit in with the guys, whenever someone other than Bucky wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him into the fold.  

“Practice, huh?” Bucky says, steel edged, and it cuts through all the hooting and hollering around them.

Steve’s voice is steady, real steady, when he says back, “That’s right,” and he doesn't look at Bucky at all.

“Didn’t know you had someone to play doctor with,” Bucky keeps on.

“Bet it’s one of your sisters,” Brian interjects. “With the way he’s always ‘round your place.”  

Steve slides his eyes over to Bucky at that; doesn’t even care that he can feel his cheeks heating up. He figures Bucky must be livid, but when his face comes into focus he doesn’t look mad at all, just contemplative, his lips twisted into a wry smile.

“You oughta be a detective, Brian.” Bucky laughs a little too loudly, meeting Steve's gaze. “‘Cause you’re dead on. Rogers _is_  sticking it to one of my sisters. Hell, I'd wager he’s sticking it to _all of ‘em._ ”

“Bucky!”  

 Everyone stares at him, and Steve screws up his face into a frown.

“Well ain’tcha? Don’t you wanna tell the fellas all about. All about your escapades?”

There’s a smattering of mostly half-hearted encouragements, but some of the other guys look downright troubled.

“You’re shit, Barnes,” says Steve.

Albie comes bumbling to his aid, with another elbow in the side. “Now, now, Rogers is a gentleman. And gentlemen don't kiss and tell.”  

“Oh, I bet I could get him talking.” Bucky cracks his knuckles. It seems unconscious, but a shiver goes through Steve from his scalp to his feet all the same.

A familiar anticipation blooms in his belly, and spreads to his groin: all at once he's achingly, terribly hard. He hears dark promise in Bucky's voice, the sound of his joints snapping is an even darker promise. It's one Steve remembers hazily from lazy days in one another's bedrooms, from being nestled in secluded corners of Prospect Park, his back against a soft piles of pine needles, his bare legs hidden by tall, thick trees.

He remembers every moment in a rush: Bucky's hands on him at 9, at 12, at 15, and then the consuming feeling that maybe it wasn't real at all, just a balm to the shameful lust he feels for Bucky in his weaker moments, in the ass end of the night when he hears Bucky stirring restlessly across their bedroom. Maybe the memories are his own dark thing, conjured from early wet dreams, all of which began with Bucky Barnes when he was old enough to have them.

He feels himself grow harder still.

Steve is perversely thankful his face is already red as a ripe tomato. He shifts awkwardly for a moment, then manages a scowl, and shoves his hands deep into his pockets to pull his trousers what distance he can from his erection. Bucky sees him do it. Bucky sees everything he does, hasn't that always been the lesson?

"I can always get you talking, ain't that right Stevie?"

And that's it. That's what it takes to get Steve turning tail and marching back to their apartment with a single minded need. Stevie. How dare he. _Stevie Stevie Stevie._ He can _hear_  Bucky whispering his name against his ear, plying him, sweet talking him even before his voice dropped like half a grown-up.

_Just let me, just let me look at you, need to make sure you're ok. C'mon Stevie. C'mon, ain'tcha bored? C'mon, play with me. Just us two. There's no one else to play with._

His fingers brush against the head of his dick through his pocket lining and Steve inhales roughly to keep from gasping.  It’s only a few more blocks, only a few more tortuously long blocks until he can take care of himself properly, privately. But his fingers keep finding their way back to his overly sensitive dick, and the feel of his tidy, short nails gentled by the fabric is just. It’s too much.

He pulls his hands out of his pockets, and clenches them into his fists at his sides, lets his nails dig firmly into his palms, and puts his head down. Steve concentrates on his breathing. When he’s finally in the dark entrance to their building he has the top button of his pants open before he even realizes he’s done it. He grabs he banister and takes the stairs as fast as he can, Bucky’s voice in his head, goading him.

—

The door slams and Steve jumps. He's in his briefs; didn't bother to put his pants back on after frantically bringing himself off in the middle of their kitchen. He's never washed that kind of thing off his hands at the kitchen sink before.

He keeps his eyes studiously on his drawing now, his back as straight as he can get it at their bathtub-come-kitchen table, the big basin covered by a slab of wood Bucky dragged home from BedStuy for them. He doesn't need to look up; Bucky's got a _presence_ , and Steve would know it was him even if there were anyone else it could be. Steve can feel him like a phantom limb.

"Do you miss it?"

"Huh?" He tries for an airy lack of concern.

Bucky prowls towards him, eyes narrowed. "I said: Do. You. Miss. It."

Steve tilts his head and turns his lip up into a sneer, even as his face flushes again.  "Miss what?"

"You know what."

"Then say it yourself." Steve blows his bangs off his face out the side of his mouth. He stands up and takes a step forward. It’s almost a challenge.

Bucky deflates some.

"Do I miss you, you _pawing_ at me?"

Nothing.

"Or do I miss the bruises?"

"Hey, you asked for those." Bucky's angry now, veering toward wild eyed.

"Did I?" Steve considers his nails and shrugs.

"You're asking right now, and you know it, Rogers."

"What if I'm not?"

"Shut up!" Bucky shouts and grabs him by the front of his Oxford, hanging open over his undershirt.

They stand there for a long moment, pulled close together, breathing in the same stale air, until Steve asks, "Do _you_  miss it?"

And it's obvious. Nothing about Bucky is subtle. Steve knows his answer like he knows anything, but there's a part of him that isn't sure, not really. Then Bucky spits back, "miss what?" And drops his eyes.

"Do you miss the Game?"

Bucky breathes deep, uncurls his fingers from Steve's shirt front like it pains him to do it. He'd had Steve pulled so taut that he bounces a little when his heels hit the ground. They're not held together anymore, but they're not far apart. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and rubs a hand over his face.  

"I dunno, Stevie."

Steve's expression is doubtful.

"Tell me you miss it," he says, and reaches up to touch Bucky's face, curves his palm to Bucky's cheek. 

Bucky covers Steve's hand with his own and squeezes, pressing his fingers together and hard against his own jaw, helping Steve bruise him.

"There aren't words for what I miss."

He slides Steve's hand to his mouth and nips at the fleshy part of his palm below his fingers. Steve bites back a gasp, and Bucky bites down harder, pulls the tiny bit of fat Steve has between his teeth, and keeps hold of Steve's hand when he jerks in surprise.

"Shhhhhh," he murmurs, and licks over the indents he's left behind. Steve can _feel_ the shiver that goes through Bucky; it’s like a current. Bucky's cheek is warm beneath his fingertips, his whole body radiating heat. Electric.

Bucky licks again at Steve's hand, almost gentle, and Steve can't help but think for just a moment: _Is this a kiss? Is he. Is he kissing me_? before Bucky bites down again. Teeth almost as delicate as tongue, but sharp enough to mark. Steve's always bruised easy, they’ve known that since they were kids.

Suddenly Bucky's grip tightens, and Steve tenses up. Bucky inhales deeply right at the place where Steve's fingers meet his palm. Steve feels his lips shift into a slow, pleased grin, and knows what Bucky's thinking before he sing-songs tauntingly against Steve's skin, "I know that smell."

Steve's heart speeds up.

"Smells an awful lot like someone needed some time alone in a hurry." Bucky's tongue laps between Steve's middle and forefingers, teasing little licks.

"Bucky..." Steve starts in warningly, but Bucky's other hand lands heavily on his shoulder and Steve's eyebrows shoot up.

"Way you took off I was worried something was wrong. You looked all flushed, fevered maybe." His voice is muffled, and his tongue slips lewdly between Steve's fingers.

"Doctor wasn't in." Steve shrugs, not without effort. "Fortunately I've picked up some basics myself."

Bucky's cheek twitches, a fleeting scowl, and he abruptly drops Steve's hand. Then he smiles, and his other hand travels down Steve's chest until his fingers tap Steve's undershirt, right over his heart.

"Still beatin' pretty fast, Stevie. Sure you don't need an expert opinion?"

Steve takes an unconscious step back, hardly makes a difference since Bucky moves with him. Always there, always crowding his space.

The hand against his chest pushes him, so gentle he doesn't notice he's been backed up against the kitchen table until the raw edge digs into his back, the sharp prickle of unsanded wood through his shirt. His hands come to rest on its surface.

"I can take a look," Bucky says like he's doing Steve a favor. "Why don't you hop on up."

Steve hesitates, and Bucky hauls him up from under his armpits instead and plops him down hard. It's a harsh enough landing that it takes him a minute to register anything beyond the shock of hitting wood, but as he squirms a little in Bucky's grip — his hands have slid down Steve's sides and now it _tickles_  — he can tell he's sitting on something. _My pastels_ , he registers dimly, but dismay over his art supplies fades quickly in the look Bucky's giving him.

"Shouldn't go running away like that," Bucky's saying, but Steve's too distracted by Bucky's serious expression to really listen, too captivated by the feather-light touch of Bucky's fingers trailing up and down his sides. Every point of contact between them is just enough to make him shiver, and every shift of his hips brings sharp focus to the rough surface beneath him, the troubling grind of the chalk against his bony ass.

One of Bucky's hands stops on Steve's hip; but the other keeps tracing lightly down his leg, palms his thigh, draws circles on his kneecap. They're almost at eye level with him up on the table. Bucky's hips fit just between Steve's open knees. He dips his face closer to Steve's neck, and his voice drops to a reproachful whisper.

"Makes me look bad, you know? In front of the guys." He's trying to guilt Steve, just like the week Bucky caught him every time he touched himself and then blamed him for it. Like somehow it was _his_  fault. Doesn't matter, though, because Steve can barely hear him over the sound of his own heart — and Bucky was right, it _is_  fast. It only gets faster when he says, "I gotta go after you again like I did today, they're gonna start thinkin' I'm sweet on you."

Both of Bucky's big, broad hands are on Steve's hips now, thumbs rubbing over the waistband of his briefs, fingers splayed across the top of his ass, holding him in place.  He leans in even closer, says right into Steve's good ear, mouth nearly against his skin, "And we both know that ain't true, don't we?"

Then Bucky bites down hard on Steve's earlobe and the world stops.

Steve exhales sharply. Doesn't mean to move at all, but when Bucky releases his ear he turns his head and exposes his neck like he's dying for it. His bangs fall loose into his eyes.

"C'mon," Bucky murmurs, still real close, his breath hot on Steve's skin. One of his hands comes down to cup Steve through his briefs, and Steve jerks at that, almost knocks their heads together. Bucky laughs, a little surprised, a little mean.

"C'mon," he says again. "For me, Stevie. Make it up to me. You made me look like some kinda sap."

Against all odds, against everything he knows his body can do, Steve feels himself start to get hard, and it _hurts_ , just past the point of pleasure, the way a good fight leaves you high on it. He shifts uncomfortably, says Bucky's name, pleading, and Bucky just laughs again, puffs of air that raise goosebumps across his neck.  

He doesn't mean to push into Bucky's hand but he can't help the movement of his hips. Bucky lets his head drop onto his shoulder, and Steve hates himself for tilting his head back, and giving him better access to his throat, hates his treacherous arousal, and the way he's clutching at the back of Bucky's sweaty shirt.

"Stevie," Bucky whispers against his over-sensitive skin, " _Stevie_. Just let me—I got you." And he does: he squeezes Steve's dick through the fabric, chuckles a little at the choked-off sound he makes.

"Tell me you like it. Go on. Lemme hear you."

"Bu-bucky. I can't, it's not—"

Bucky freezes, stills his hand. Nearly pulls away but Steve's there first, holding onto his wrist.   
  
"Don't be fucking stupid," Bucky says, voice rough. "Don't be fucking stupid, Steve. If you can't then I—"  
  
"Shut up," Steve hisses, and moves Bucky's hand for him.   
  
"Oh, _thaaaat's_ right. There you go."

Steve can feel Bucky's smirk return, even if he can't hear it in his voice. The concern vanished as quickly as it came, and now Bucky sounds nothing short of smug.

"Knew I did you in. Knew you could take it. You can, can'tcha?"

"I can take anything you've got," Steve grinds out, and he means it, but his breathing is low enough, harsh enough, that he doesn't think Bucky will take it as a challenge.

"'Course you can." Bucky's hand tightens again, a goad, to see if Steve will jump. He doesn't, and Bucky's fingers move lower, finding the base of his dick unerringly through dampening cotton, like he knows Steve's body instinctively. Like he knows exactly how to make Steve want it more, even if it hurts. Knows just where to touch to keep it on the right side of bearable.

If it's a little more pain than pleasure, well — how is Bucky to know, when Steve can't do much but pant into his hair, and fail at muffling his groans. Every stroke drags fabric along with it, and it chafes.

"Jesus Christ, Buck, fucking, God—"

Bucky _tsks_ against his neck; it's the only warning he gets before he bites down — nips, really, the tiny pinch of skin between his teeth, more painful than an open-mouthed bite would be. Bucky worries the skin there until Steve is sure it'll break, bleed maybe, then he pulls off just enough to say, " _Language_ , Stevie. Can't go taking the Lord's name in vain — you wanna get His attention?" Another long, slow drag of his hand up Steve's dick, as if to make his point.

Christ, but Steve loves it. Couldn't do himself this way if he wanted to. Can't imagine going back now. The louder he gets, the more desperate Bucky's encouraging litany of _there you go, that's right Stevie, just for me, just for me, right? Nobody else_ gets. He's groaning right along with Steve, labored breath in tandem, and Steve registers amazedly that he can feel Bucky's erection, pressed hard to his thigh where Bucky has him spread open.

"Gotta touch you," Bucky says, and Steve full on gasps when Bucky's hand scrabbles into his underwear and wraps fully around his dick, thumb sliding over the head and gathering slick. His whole body feels raw, a collection of open nerves bundled into human form. Bucky's skin on his sends a jolt of panic through him. What if, what if it never ends, if he can't finish, if—

He whimpers. "I don't...I don't know if I can—"

"Hush up. I've got you, I got you." Bucky only strokes faster, grits out, "don't fucking ruin it, Stevie," and latches his mouth onto to his neck with brutal intent.

And it hurts. It all hurts _so much_. His balls feel tight and sore, and that small part of Steve that's never ever wanted to let Bucky down, ever since he was a dumb kid, that's the part of him that aches the worst.

" _Bucky_ ," he chokes out, louder than he meant to, and collapses forward onto Bucky's shoulder. He can feel his dick pulsing in Bucky's grip. He pants out something that's almost Bucky's name, and finally, finally, release. His dick jerks in Bucky's hand and warm fluid hits his stomach. He feels wrung out, on the verge of tears, probably in tears, but his face is damp and hot against Bucky's shirt and he can't be sure.

Bucky pulls his hand out of his briefs and nudges the side of Steve's jaw with it. His voice is as ragged as Steve feels when he says, "That's the smell I was talkin' about. I'd know you anywhere."

Steve makes a bleary sound and inadvertently turns his head toward Bucky's touch, but Bucky's hand is gone. The needy pull he'd felt to nuzzle against it lingers. He hears Bucky wipe his hand on his pants and then lets himself be manhandled upright. Steve swallows, and blinks a few times to clear his head. His thighs and ass feel stiff; the pastels must be ground to dust. Bucky's peering at him, his hair all curled up and sweaty, his expression deeply smug.

"D'you want me to..." Steve juts his chin toward Bucky's very visible erection.

"Do I want you to what? Clean up this mess?"

"I meant," Steve starts to say, but Bucky shakes his head firmly and steps away. End of discussion. There's crushed pigment all around Steve's hips.

"Just clean it up, would ya? Don't see why you'd spend all your money on art shit if you can't treat it nice."

"Fuck you, Barnes," Steve mutters, but he could swear that Bucky's eyes are softer and kinder than usual as he walks away.

"Gimme a minute, and I'll help," Bucky adds, and then he closes the door to the little room with their sink and toilet, leaving Steve alone.

For just a second, a millisecond, he palms himself through his wet briefs. It's the edge of too much, over the edge maybe, but he can't help the reflexive tightening of his hand. Pretends like he's adjusting himself, even if there's no one there to see. The sensation makes his eyes cross.

"Gonna go change," he calls out, and heads toward the bedroom. Rests his damp head against the cool of the wall, and sighs. He shucks his underwear off and changes into his one set of matching pajamas; no use pretending he's going out again today. He's tired. He's already done enough. And besides, there's cleaning up to be done.

\--

Days later, they haven't talked about it. They never talked about anything they did when they were kids, but something is different now. Steve knows something has shifted. Bucky is outwardly avaricious of his time in a way he never was before. At least never so openly.

Steve is tidying up their room, stripping the beds for laundry day when something strangely colored catches his eye as he's bundling up Bucky's sheets. Steve fishes through the pile until he finds the culprit: his own damn briefs, stolen from the hamper and...stashed in Bucky's bed.

He frowns, wondering if he's gotten it confused — they had been missing for several days, and it's not like him to lose a perfectly good pair of underwear. Maybe they'd been kicked under the bed, and he'd grabbed them while chasing stray socks? But no: one side of Bucky's pillowcase is definitely covered in pastel smudges.

He sighs, and hefts the entire pile into the basket. The stained pillowcase lands on top, and Steve can't help the tiny smile that slips onto his face.

"Jeez, Buck," he says wryly, under his breath, "You _do_  care." He shakes his head, amused with himself, and goes to do the washing.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, follow us on Tumblr for more Teen Sadist Bucky: [reserve](http://reserve.tumblr.com/) & [robokittens](http://robokittens.tumblr.com/). And please, feel free to yell at us in the comments.


End file.
